


Seize

by Fulcrumisthebomb



Category: Archer (Cartoon), Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles - All Media Types
Genre: Crossover, M/M, exploratory sex, mad scientist buddies, oddly poetic smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-08
Updated: 2015-06-08
Packaged: 2018-04-03 13:19:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4102441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fulcrumisthebomb/pseuds/Fulcrumisthebomb
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Donatello is fascinated by his human friend's hands, and everything they're attached to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Seize

**Author's Note:**

> Self indulgent crossover smut of my favourite mad scientists, set after they've met each other in a dark alleyway over a corpse, and Krieger's sneaking him into the ISIS lab regularly and they're basically best friends for life by this point
> 
> I pulled a Lucas and started in the middle of the AU

The only touches Donatello has known in his short life have been rough, the imperfections of flesh exaggerated by layers of callouses and erosion. His brother's hands are worn by weapons and training, as are his own, and his father's had already begun to succumb to old age in his earliest memories.

Which is why Donatello wishes he could tape his eyes open, cursing the need to blink and the constant annoyance of his eyelids stealing a brief half-second of the sight of Krieger's hands on him.

The human's hands are abnormally smooth, bearing only the normal wrinkles gained through natural movement. The skin is pale and impossibly soft, and Donatello can't stop grabbing them through that first night, placing them experimentally across his entire body, memorizing the feel of their skin gliding together. Patient caresses pass over hundreds of scars, the worshipful turn of the slight wrists forgiving a thousand sins branded into his flesh.

Donatello is so focused, so obsessed with the ten perfect digits he does not register his incoming downfall. He is mentally calculating how many weeks- months- perhaps years he could spend studying Krieger's hands, balanced against a reasonable timeframe to request to do so, when a warm, wet pressure slides across his neck and the world spins. In the span of three seconds, Krieger's hands are forgotten and Donatello wraps around his human with all available limbs, wordlessly crying for more. The intensity of his response to Krieger's tongue is easily twice that of his immaculate hands; Donatello is quickly trying to readjust his assessment when his human wickedly employs both in tandem, throwing Donatello's brain into static fuzz.

And when Krieger silently gives permission to return the exploratory touches, clothes falling away in a mesmerizing dance, Donatello's cock is reaching for the expanse of flushed skin in less than a minute. He rapidly discovers  _everything_ about his human is soft- except for the firm length pressing back- the endless plane of shifting muscles and fat yielding to the too-wide pads of his fingers with an eager fire that stokes his own to a fevered pitch. 

Fluorescent lights expose the map of Donatello's ugly secrets written across his body, and yet his human devours them all with a hungry mouth. Mumbled praises are offered in return, but Donatello's mind is overloaded and he knows his words are grossly inferior to the exploding pleasure that makes him shiver.

When Krieger grins and grinds against him, eyes narrowed in lust, Donatello dares to hope his human won't remember his verbal fumblings. Next time-  _oh gods please let there be a next time!_ \- he would have something prepared that properly expresses his awe.

Even after the bombardment of passion and data, the best surprise is afterward when their bodies are cooling, Krieger's manic grin settling into a small upturn of the sculpted lips as they remain entangled, sharing observations and suggestions and  _yes, yes they're planning a next time_. Krieger casually mentions the strategic cameras positioned in his lab and they move together to find the oversized screen, isolating the footage they need. Impulsively they share a second frenzied lust in the black desk chair, his nails adding another jagged tear in the cushion.

The artificial lighting belies the truth of the various clocks positioned around the giant room, and Donatello is just as fascinated with helping Krieger replace his clothes as he was watching them glide off the pale skin. His hands linger in the dips of muscle along arms and legs, delighting in that eternal slight smile and the quiet laughs Krieger offers.

By the time the sun peeks above the horizon, Krieger texts he is safely home and Donatello is slipping into his own bed. His hands trace where his human's had been just an hour ago, his sheets tenting with his frantic movements, though his happiness narrows into something sharp and heavy as Donatello remembers offhand comments he had filtered through the hacked surveillance footage. Not so subtle hints of Krieger's perfect hands roaming another's body, curving and exciting the other humans who surround him daily.

Krieger's hands do not belong to him. 

Yet.


End file.
